


I Know People'll Think We're Crazy; Maybe we are...

by Anonymous



Category: Fail_fandomanon - Fandom, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Community: fail_fandomanon, M/M, Schmoop, Tentacles, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-11-30 00:39:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/693365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Dr. Watson has good reason to lose his composure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Know People'll Think We're Crazy; Maybe we are...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fail Nonnies One & All](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Fail+Nonnies+One+%26+All).



> Neither beta'd nor Brit-picked; all flubs my own. Title from 1977 film _Tentacles_. Inspired by this thread:  
>  http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/50237.html?thread=232648765t232648765
> 
> What have you done to me, meme?! (P.S.: I <3 you all!)

"God, Sherlock, I'm sorry about that. Truly." John Watson turned on the tap to rinse the mouthwash from the basin and wiped his mouth a final time.

In truth, he had been prepared to lose some measure of objectivity with Sherlock's body warm and vulnerable under his hands. He had rather expected to find himself resisting some decidedly unprofessional urges; he simply hadn't anticipated that vomitting would be the one to which he ultimately succumbed. 

In the bedroom, Sherlock remained perched at the foot of the bed, where John had finally cajoled him into submitting to an examination of certainly-bruised, possibly-cracked ribs. He had wrapped his unbuttoned shirt around himself again, to preserve his dignity or his body heat or both, John supposed. 

"Really, it was a rather impressive display. I don't think even Donovan or Anderson have demonstrated quite so viscerally the disgust they're always yammering on with."

"You know that's not what this is," he said softly. "Or at least I hope you do. I certainly don't know how else to show you."

Sherlock kept an uncharacteristic silence, but his eyes were eloquent in the moment before his gaze skittered away from John's. 

"Show me again," he said, skill from the medical corps and the ED and his tenure as blogger to the world's only consulting detective all giving the command such weight that even Sherlock wouldn't refuse. 

He opened the shirt at its front, leaving the fabric to fall over his shoulders and John involuntarily winced again at the sight of Sherlock's abdomen. The space approximately one hand's-breadth below his sternum and perhaps two above his belly-button was occupied by four thick, cylindrical, flesh-colored growths... protuberances... tentacles. Tentacles.

"Does this hurt? You would tell me if you were in pain?"

"Of course. Even if you couldn't give me any morphine."

"How," John cleared his throat, "how long ago did this begin?"

"I noticed it Tuesday last."

"Tuesday last? Do you mean to tell me that you've had actual, literal tentacles for a bloody week and a half? And it never occurred to you to mention this? Not so much as an 'oh, by the way, John, I seem to have four additional appendages this morning'?" He was shouting. Sometimes it was very hard not to shout while living in 221B. 

Sherlock shrugged, the tentacles shifting along with the muscles of his shoulders and chest. "Lestrade brought an unusually absorbing case. This hardly seemed relevant by comparison."

"What do you mean 'not relevant'? Sherlock, this is remarkably 'not good'! In the future, let us assume that a mass of tentacles springing up below your sternum - or in fact anywhere on your person - is always a worthwhile subject." 

"Worthwhile? Hardly. They're really quite dull. They don't even properly writhe without stimulation." He reached down and prodded the second from the right to demonstrate. It curled and strained for a moment before going still alongside its bretheren; John did his level best to suppress a shudder. "Although that one on the left - mine, not yours - seems to have taken a shine to you." 

John reached out with tentative hands, exploring the region of Sherlock's mid-section above, below, upon either side of where the tentacles emerged.

"I know I'm going to regret asking this: how can you tell?"

Sherlock's hand reached down to cover John's own, pressing it over his heart. "It is a part of me, after all."


End file.
